Juvenile court a place of hope, despair, second chances

Judge John Williams presides over cases in Hamilton County Juvenile Court on Wednesday.(Photo: The Enquirer/Amanda Rossmann)

Story Highlights

According to the 2013 annual report, last year Hamilton County Juvenile Court handled 720 complaints for assault, 216 for menacing, 75 for sexual offenses, 309 for robbery, 434 for burglary, 975 for theft, 363 for vandalism and damage and 3 for homicide, among other charges.

At 800 Broadway, chief magistrate Carla Guenthner steps into an elevator and pushes the button marked 1. “Everything quiet on the first floor?” she asks the security guard beside her.

The woman looks at her with a knowing smile. “We’ll see. It’s subject to change minute to minute.”

Probably nothing truer has ever been said of 800 Broadway, which is shorthand for the Hamilton County Juvenile Court. About 30,000 new cases are heard here each year, all of them involving that segment of the population whose brains are still under development, along with their driving ability, decision-making skills and manners.

It’s why, brought into court in handcuffs and shackles, a female teenage defendant has been known to pass by a young court worker and whisper brightly, “I really like your skirt!”

They may be facing charges for menacing, theft, marijuana, chronic truancy or assault – and they may have a rap sheet longer than the “Loyalty” tattoo running down their forearm – but they’re still kids.

Which is what makes juvenile court a setting of both endless hope and latent despair.

Wednesday morning, Judge John Williams’ docket started with a 16-year-old and 17-year-old charged in a Madisonville killing, and a 13-year-old charged with reckless homicide in the shooting death of his 13-year-old friend.

His parents and grandfather watching red-eyed from chairs along the wall, the boy – hardly 5 feet tall – was led into court by a sheriff’s deputy. He curled forward in his chair, made eye contact with no one, and hung his head.

In his chambers later, Williams says, “What I’m always struck by – even in some of the really violent cases – is that they’re so small.”

A law student interning at the court says the first thing she notices is this: “They’re not scary – they may be intimidated, confused sometimes, but not scary.”

Which cannot always be said of their parents.

Court officials say parents’ support is crucial for helping a wayward kid. But some moms and dads don’t agree with that, or seemingly anything else a judge or magistrate tells them.

Thursday, as she was supposed to be answering visiting Judge Sylvia Hendon’s questions about why her 16-year-old son was living unsupervised and apart from his family, a mother rolled out her own list of complaints and rebuttals instead.

Asked to release the boy on probation to his mother, Hendon said he should have been there for the last two years. “Excuse me? There’s no point in coming in here. We’ll be fighting this,” his mother said, and left the courtroom. Moments later, glancing back to see his mother, the 16-year-old saw only her empty chair.

Wednesday, when Williams gave her 14-year-old son additional days in juvenile detention and probation instead of sending him to the state’s youth prison, Regina Owens sat nodding her head and wiping tears from her eyes. When Williams asked her to let the court know if there were infractions, she said, “I’ll tell on him in a heartbeat.”

Afterward, in the hallway outside, Owens’ older son, Demetrius Harris, remembered being in the same courtroom five years ago, when he was a 14-year-old who had accidentally shot and wounded a friend.

He could have been sentenced to 17 years in prison but served a short term in detention instead. He still remembers then-Judge Thomas Lipps’ admonitions. They stuck. “I got my GED, I got a job and I’m going to the Marines next year – and I never came back here,” he says.

It’s the best outcome the juvenile court judges and magistrates could hope for and the reason that, faced with packed dockets, they still take time to advise, warn, encourage, scold and sometimes cajole the young people before them.

“If you loved your mom, would you walk around with a 45 (caliber handgun)?” Williams asks one young defendant facing weapon charges. “I’m not going to put up with this, with guns. Do you understand if you don’t listen, what I’m going to do? I’m going to send you to DYS (the Department of Youth Services). I’m not going to let you fail.”

Later, Williams says that if only two out of 100 youth heed his warnings, “I’m still always going to say it.”

From his corner of the courtroom, Williams’ bailiff, John Englert, says the power of juvenile court is that the youths who come before it still have time to change. “Sometimes the judge only has a few minutes to talk to them, but sometimes that’s the minute that works.” ■